Chapter 166: The Age of Gods (2).

“My God…”

Hundreds of thousands of Nephilim. Armies of demigods, each one born from a corrupted angel and presumably possessing power beyond mortal comprehension. All of them driven by the same inexplicable urge to conquer and consume.

The world must have been drowning in blood.

Nero tried to imagine what that era must have looked like and found he couldn’t. His mind simply refused to grasp the scale of destruction such a war would have caused. The visions he’d experienced in his mind, influenced by the runes being absorbed by the Book of Mephistopheles, suddenly made more sense.

They had not been mere metaphors or abstractions.

They were simply memories on a terrible time.

Nero frowned.

Or perhaps recordings. Recordings of an actual apocalypse that had once come upon the earth, greatly changing the world.

After a long period of silence, during which Nero simply lay on the floor of the skull trying not to have a complete mental breakdown, he finally managed to form another question.

“What does this have to do with the Mark of Mephistopheles?”

{Mephistopheles is a Demon God that often engaged in equivalent exchange. However, he was also known by many as a deceiver, known to swindle or cheat others out of their own. Mephistopheles is a collector. He collects anything and everything. The Book of Mephistopheles is one of his most prized possessions that allows him to gather the possessions others have left behind upon their deaths. The runes the book has gathered can be accessed at any time by the Heretic, but the mark can also be used to store other things, like a special subspace granted specifically to the Heretic}.

Nero processed that information slowly, turning it over in his mind.

So Mephistopheles was a collector. A hoarder of knowledge and power and probably souls, given his demonic nature. The Book gathered things left behind by the dead, which explained why it had absorbed the runes from a dead god’s skull.

But why had Nero been given the Mark? What had he traded for it, if anything?

He thought back to that encounter with the Defiled Cherub, to the moment the book had emerged from its mouth. He hadn’t agreed to anything, hadn’t made any deal or contract. The Mark had simply appeared, branded onto his flesh without his consent.

“What did Mephistopheles take from me?” Nero asked quietly.

The Oracle was silent.

That silence was answer enough.

Nero closed his eyes and let out a long, shuddering breath. Whatever price he’d paid, whatever equivalent exchange had occurred, it had happened without his knowledge or agreement.

He’d been swindled, just like the Oracle had said Mephistopheles was known to do.

The bastard had cheated him.

And now Nero was bound to a demon prince through a mark he couldn’t remove, carrying around a book filled with stolen knowledge that might very well drive him insane if he tried to access it again.

“This is fine,” he muttered to himself. “Everything is absolutely fine.”

It was not, in fact, fine.

But dwelling on it wouldn’t help. He needed to focus on the practical aspects, on understanding what he could actually do with this cursed mark.

“How do I access the subspace?” he asked.

The Oracle’s response was immediate.

{Focus your will upon the Mark. Envision opening a door. The subspace will respond to the Heretic’s intent}.

Nero raised his good hand and stared at the back of it, at the inverted crimson cross that had caused him so much pain. The mark had stopped glowing, returning to its dormant state, but he could still feel it pulsing beneath his skin.

He focused his will upon it, imagining a door opening in his mind.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the mark flared to life, and Nero felt something shift in the space around him. A sensation of depth, of volume being created where none had existed before. Like a pocket being sewn into the fabric of reality itself.

His consciousness touched the edge of that space, and he understood.

It was empty, waiting to be filled. A storage space bound to his very being, accessible only to him.

And somewhere within that space, nested like a tumor, was the Book of Mephistopheles.

Nero let the connection drop, the mark fading back to its dormant state.

He now had a way to carry things without needing his satchel. A way to store supplies, weapons, anything he might need. It was, admittedly, quite useful.

But the fact that it came from a demon god who had potentially swindled him made Nero’s skin crawl.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position, wincing as his broken arm protested the movement. His body was still a mess of injuries, but at least he could move now. The Essence Pill had done its work, keeping him alive if not exactly healthy.

Gungnir still floated in the center of the skull, its silver light steady and patient.

Nero looked at the spear and felt a surge of resentment.

“You knew,” he said aloud. “You knew this would happen when you brought me here.”

The spear pulsed once, the silver light teasing in the darkness.

Nero pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly as his injured leg threatened to give out. He limped toward Gungnir, each step painful but manageable.

When he reached the spear, he wrapped his hand around its shaft and felt the familiar connection snap into place.

Whatever Gungnir had wanted him to find here, he’d found it. As for how significant this ordeal truly was? He had no idea.

The Mark had absorbed the runes, the Oracle had given him knowledge he wasn’t sure he wanted, and now he was standing in the skull of a dead god with more questions than answers.

“Let’s get out of here,” Nero muttered.

He turned toward the exit, ready to begin the long, painful journey back to the surface.

Behind him, unnoticed, a single rune flickered to life on the bare bone wall.

Then another.

And another.

The skull was not quite as empty as it appeared.

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